Sfumato deja vu

The heatwave burns the edges off reality. Conscious thought is hazy and incoherent at best. Getting through the day is a survival trip that boils down to perceptions of the flesh. I'm respiring perspired air in the tram only to jump out of the frying pan into the fire. Every single thing's wreathed in a miasma of odors. Exhaust fumes, sun-baked concrete, smoldering blacktop. Stale urine and animal feces. Sweat, dust and grime. The air's riddled with noises. Cars, horns, cries and shrieks of children, the yakkety yak of adults. All of it melding into a vapid, synesthetic drone, as if of an analog TV set stuck on an empty channel. Going on and on. Only to ultimately subside and die off at dusk. I can only think straight at night. But by then I'm too tired to do anything but sleep.
Zelazny said that civilization is just another name for the art of living in cities. I wouldn't call it art. More of an extreme sport.
The sooner this heatwave is over, the better. There's hope though - I can smell a storm in the air.